A Different Game to Play
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: "My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live next door to Haymitch Abernathy. I have no idea how to be in a romantic relationship." After years of being forced to pretend, Katniss searches for a way to show Peeta that her love is real.


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or locations mentioned below. This work of fanfiction is to be used solely for creative purposes and in no way for profit.

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It takes a long time before I am truly comfortable being alone with Peeta. This is no fault of his, though he sometimes blames himself. I am not afraid of him, not anymore. I try to tell him this, but words still are not my strong point. I can tell it bothers him when he touches me and I flinch or pull away. It is not his contact that I mind. I just cannot seem to shake the feeling that people are watching us.

After years of us being under constant surveillance, the fact that he is truly mine, that there are no cameras, no adoring fans, no script to follow, is difficult to grapple with. Though Peeta does not know it, I add this fact to my lists of truths I tell myself each morning.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 18 years old. I live in the new District 12. My mother is in District 8, my sister is gone. Peeta and I live alone.

The last fact is the only one that gives me any comfort. My favorite times of the day are when Greasy Sae has gone home, when Haymitch is safely in his house a few yards away and when it is just Peeta, standing in the kitchen or curled on the couch, alone with me.

It was an unspoken agreement that he would move into my house from the moment I saw the primrose bushes he had planted. I could not live alone, certainly not when it was within my power to have him here, and neither of us wanted him down the road, in the house filled with the ghosts of his family. He tried to take the bedroom down the hall from me, saying it would be safer. I allow him this because he seems to need it for now. But nearly every night after a nightmare, I end up tucked in bed by his side like a child. He never says anything, just pulls the covers back and opens his arms. And like iron to a magnet, I crawl into his embrace.

He does not kiss me. Not anymore. Perhaps he thinks I want it this way, that my affections were only a ploy for the cameras. I pretend this does not bother me. It is not until Haymitch broaches the subject that I begin to form a plan in my mind.

"So you're not a couple?" he asks me one spring day after the war. His tone is incredulous. We are sitting in his yard, which despite that fact that it is almost completely neglected, has begun to blossom with wild grass and dandelions. I am playing with a dandelion, twirling its thin green stem between my fingers and thinking of Peeta. Haymitch's geese squawk greedily around us as he feeds them.

"I don't know what that means," I answer. And truthfully, I do not. I have never been any good at this sort of thing.

Haymitch snorts. "You know what it means. You've pretended enough for the cameras."

"That's just it," I say, letting the golden yellow flower fall from my fingers, "I'm sick of pretending. I don't know how _not_ to pretend." I feel a panic attack coming on and press my hands to my temples.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live next door to Haymitch Abernathy. I have no idea how to be in a romantic relationship.

"You could try kissing him," Haymitch takes a swig from his bottle while tossing out another handful of dried bread crumbs that Peeta brings him from the bakery. His hair is getting long, but I am glad to see he has combed it. The dark hair, once the same hue as my own, is streaked with white. The strands stand out, brittle and dry among their darker, sleeker companions.

"I don't think he would believe it was real," I am ashamed at how I cannot hide the sadness in my voice as I say this. Haymitch picks up on it.

"So show him it's real," he tells me. He takes another pull of his precious liquor. I frown at the sight. At least he is outside. I did not see him for weeks when we first got back. I was too afraid to go into his house, afraid of seeing him at his worst. We both did not start living again until Peeta came back.

"How?" I am desperate for guidance.

"You're going to have to figure out a way, sweetheart." We lapse into silence. The creased lines of his face deepen as he loses himself in thought. Not for the first time, I wish that Haymitch had someone for himself. But he is the consummate loner; Peeta and I will have to be enough for him.

I think about Peeta as I am hunting that afternoon. Though it is painful, I call to memory interactions between my father and mother. I never questioned their love, their commitment to one another. I could bring him something, like my father did my mother. Something more intimate than the game I normally bring. I scour my mind for something Peeta would enjoy and come up empty. In frustration I throw my bow, screaming a little at the unfairness of it all. Peeta is the one who is good at romantic gestures, not me.

My bow goes tumbling behind some bushes and I grudgingly follow it, taking no care to be quiet. I have already brought down a few rabbits today. It will have to be enough now that I have scared any potential game off. I have stopped using snares to trap food. That was Gale's area of expertise. Just the sight of a trap now turns my stomach. I turn my mind to the task at hand. The smooth wood of my most prized possession has landed in a soft pile of wildflowers. I inspect the handle and am relieved to see that I did not damage it in my childish fit of anger. I look around at the flowers, scenes of the games threatening to rush through my mind. They are beautiful, a rainbow of colors, overlapping and blending like they have no idea of the horrors of the world.

Peeta would love them. The thought barely crosses my mind before I am on my knees, gathering huge bunches of them in my fist. I pick them in every color until I cannot hold them all in my hand and am forced to bind them together with a length of cloth from my shirt. The bouquet grows into something behemoth but I cannot stop. Carefully I arrange it as best I can, until it is a spiral of colors that remind me of him. Orange, the soft kind like a sunset, for his favorite color. White for Rue, and the painting he made of her. Yellow, pale blue, lilac, gold, for the paints in which he recreates the faces of our friends, for the frosting of his cookies, for the cheese bread he bakes because he knows it is my favorite. I carefully gather them all and bring them back to the house.

He is not home when I arrive, and I am thankful. I want this to be a surprise. I find the largest bowl we own and fill it with clean water before dunking the flowers inside of it. I stand back to admire my handiwork, but I am still unsatisfied. In a fit of inspiration I plunge back outside, rushing for Haymitch's house. I run into his yard, his geese honking in protest, and gather every dandelion I can find. They may look plain in comparison to the wildflowers, but I bind them together and place them in the center of the bouquet. The dandelions mean more to me than any other flower in the world.

As a final flourish I run upstairs and to my dresser where I extract my small box of treasures. Peeta's pearl, his gift to me from our last arena, is still wrapped in the remnants of a gamemaker's parachute. I extract it carefully, cupping it in the palm of my hands, and take it downstairs to the flowers. I place it on top of the dandelions, saying a silent prayer that it will stay there and not fall.

Convinced at last that my efforts have been enough, I sprint upstairs and run myself a bath. My patchwork skin has begun to heal, to take on a single pink color, but I am still scarred. I hope Peeta will not mind. I scrub myself until I am almost raw and then smooth on the lotions that my mother left in the house. I comb out my mat of dark hair, finally long and thick again, and leave it down in waves. Seizing my courage, I open the closet.

I nearly cry at the sight of all of the clothing that Cinna left to me. They remind me of him instantly, the colors, the fabrics, the smells. I sift through them, letting the memories wash over me, surprised to find that they do not send me into one of my episodes. I select a simple dress, colored to look like flames, though not the garish kind I am used to. This one looks like heat itself, like the sun setting. It is perfect. I slip it on over my head, feeling as though Cinna is there smiling at me.

"You're beautiful, girl on fire," I hear his voice echo in my mind. I hope that Peeta will think so too.

I do not bother with makeup. I have no idea where to start anyway. The dress will have to be enough. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, waiting for Peeta to get home. My gray eyes look haunted, but I recognize the face reflected back at me; I am no longer the beautiful tribute from District 12, not even the fierce Mockingjay who led the rebellion. For the first time since my reaping, I feel like myself: Katniss Everdeen, the huntress, the daughter, the sister. With any luck, tonight I could become Katniss, the lover. The thought makes my mind go funny. There have only been a few instances since Peeta and I began our long journey together that made me think we could be something more than tributes. Now it seems to be all that I think about. I feel anxious for Peeta to get home.

He arrives at the time he always does, just before sunset, his familiar uneven gait sounding through the otherwise empty house. I make myself count to ten before I rush from the bedroom and down the stairs. He always goes to the kitchen first, even though he has spent the whole day in a similar one in the bakery. Like the woods for me, the kitchen is his domain. He has even painted the walls to suit him. They are scenes that I instantly recognize, though no one else might: the sand of the beach where we kissed, the inside of our cave from our first games, the field of flowers where I sang Rue to sleep. I was surprised to find that I do not hate them.

When Peeta does not call out to me the way he always does, I feel myself getting nervous. Perhaps he hates the gift. Men typically give flowers, not receive them. The doubts creep up, but I shove them back and tentatively enter the kitchen.

Peeta is standing there, dressed in the simple black pants and green shirt he left the house this morning in. His ashen blonde hair is streaked with a layer of flour, but his hands and face are clean. He does not even look up at me as I enter. His azure eyes are trained on my display on the counter.

"They're for you," I say softly after a moment of me watching him. His head snaps in my direction.

"This is the pearl I gave you," he reaches for it, holding it delicately between a finger and a thumb. "Real or not real?" It is the game he must play since after the war, much like my own game of truths. Every day is a step in high jacking him back, in regaining the sanity the Capitol stole from him.

"Real," I say. He inspects it for a moment before gently setting it down. He seems at last to take in my appearance. I let him stare, despite my discomfort.

"Cinna's dress?" he asks. I nod. "What made you put it on?"

"You." It is not a smooth answer, but it is the truth. Peeta continues to stare and I wonder what he is waiting for. There is no Haymitch in my ear feeding me lines, no audience to captivate. I can say what comes to my mind. I can tell him the truth. I feel doubt nudge in the back of my mind, but then the thought occurs. He is waiting for me.

I walk toward him slowly, deliberately, giving him time to decide whether he wants to stop me. When he does not, I stop in front of him. We are eye to eye and I am again struck by the length of his eyelashes, by the kindness of his face, the golden brown of his skin, his scent like sugar and flour. My boy with the bread is a boy no longer. The soft round curves of his face have evaporated, receding into hard masculine lines. I trace them slowly with my finger, following the angles from his brow to the base of his chin. When he does not flinch or pull away, I lean forward slowly and kiss him on the cheek.

"Peeta," I whisper his name, wishing I had the words to tell him what I feel.

"Why dandelions?" he asks, his words an almost breathless whisper.

"For the day with the bread. For hope." I pray desperately that he remembers what I am talking about, that the Capitol did not corrupt our first interaction as children. He saved my life years ago, when we were 11. He has been saving my life every day since the Games began.

He struggles with some emotion for a moment but I stay close to him. My hand finds his in a practiced motion and I gently squeeze, bringing him back to the present.

Once, in the arena, he told me I could kiss him whenever I liked, but I still find myself asking, "Peeta, can I kiss you?"

His eyes snap shut but he nods. I do not hesitate to lean forward and close the small distance between us. His lips are cool and dry, a product of the weather outside. I hold him against me, applying pressure, waiting for him to make the next move. His hand finds my hip and he squeezes, almost painfully. I wind my arm over his chest and around his neck. He has gained weight again. He feels solid beneath my fingers, and strong. An image of him before the games flashes in my mind: Peeta wrestling at our high school, slinging bags of flour around as though they weighed no more than a feather. He has always had physical strength, though he conceals it well. But brute force is not what attracts me to him.

Even though he is not resisting my kiss, he has not responded the way he did in the past. I pull back from him, contemplating what the issue is; searching for a way to make him believe this is not all a game to me. His face is screwed shut in concentration. He is grappling with something, fighting his way through the effects of torture, trying to make it back to reality.

"You love me," he says at last, his eyes opening. They find mine and he looks at me hard, demanding the truth. There is fear there too. I want to erase it. "Real or not real?"

"Real," my voice sounds so loud that I nearly shout the word. But it is the first thing I have been sure about in a very long time. I have never been subtle.

Peeta's free hand grips the back of my head and pulls me toward him. He is not tentative now. His kiss possesses me, erases doubt and sets me aflame. It is a pleasant feeling, burning through my limbs like fire burns through dry kindling. It puts what I felt on our beach, what I felt in our cave, to absolute shame. I am thankful there are no spectators, no reason to stop.

He comes up for breath for a moment and our eyes meet. I know I am flushed, panting like I ran a mile. I do not care at all. I smile at him so wide that it hurts. He returns it with a brilliant smile of his own.

"I was going to make dinner," he says, a laugh playing on his words.

"I'm not hungry," I say. Not for rabbit, at least.

My next kiss swallows the remnants of his laugh. He grasps me around the hips, lifting me up like I was one of his bags of flour. Somehow we end up upstairs. This time it is Peeta who comes willingly to my bed and my arms, his room down the hall all but forgotten.

"I love you, Katniss," he presses this promise into my skin with his lips as we get lost in the layers of blankets in my bed. I am a gasping, quivering mess. I have known for years Peeta's feelings for me, but I never imagined it would feel this good.

I repeat his name, my hands tracing clumsily over him. Though in the back of my mind, I was prepared for the possibility that we could end up here, I do not know what to do. I search my mind for bits and pieces I have learned from girls in the Seam, from my prep team, from Johanna's stories. I should have listened more closely while I had the chance. Intimacy has always made me nervous. Peeta grasps my shaking hands in his own.

"It's ok, Katniss," he soothes. "We don't have to—"

I am in no mood for him to refuse me. I thread my fingers through his thick hair and pull him to me. He accepts my kisses eagerly. I roll him under me, still determined to prove to him that my feelings are real.

"No. I want to," I punctuate my kisses with this proclamation.

"Have you ever?" he begins to ask me as my fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

"No." I rearrange myself to take pressure off of his prosthetic leg. "I never wanted to before." I do not need to ask if this is Peeta's first time. I paid enough attention to him before our reaping to know there was no one else.

He leans up and kisses me again, his tongue slipping into my mouth as his hands slide beneath the skirt of my dress.

"Why now?" he asks against my neck, his breath warm and sweet.

I would think the answer would be obvious, as I sit straddled in his lap, my dress rumpled and my arms wrapped around his bare chest. He needs me to say it though. I owe him that much.

"Because I love you," I take my time with my words, meet his eyes and hold his gaze. His smile, big and toothy and bright, is worth it.

Peeta slows down to a pace that would infuriate me at any other time, but I am grateful for it today. I experience each sensation in stunning clarity as he removes my dress, taking time to lay it out over a chair near the bed, careful with Cinna's creation as he is with everything. I take more liberties with his clothing which ends up in an ungraceful pile on the floor. Every kiss, every touch, is like a brand on my skin, a mark of ownership. I return them in kind.

The night is a blur of motion- hands, limbs, lips. There are moments of uncertainty, moments where we succumb to giggles, moments of quiet and even tears. The night is our own. We fall asleep, wake up in each other's arms and begin again. I am dizzy with the sensations, torn between regret that this did not happen sooner and elation that it happened when I was whole again, when I could give myself fully.

A knock on our front door early the next afternoon drags us from the world we have sequestered ourselves in. I am cosseted in Peeta's arms, my bare back pressed to his chest, our legs twisted together. He stirs against me, stretching out. We have slept many hours past our normal waking time.

"Last night happened. Real or not real?" his voice is heavy with sleep.

"Very real," I roll over, stretching my sore muscles. Peeta smiles at me.

"I think I'll paint the flowers in the kitchen today," he tells me. "So I can remember them forever."

It is one of the things he says to me that used to make me uncomfortable. Today, it makes me smile. I burrow myself into the warm skin of his chest. "I'm glad you liked them," I say at last.

The knocking on the door becomes more hysterical. Peeta sits up a bit.

"Let them wait," I beg him. I am not ready to face the world outside yet. He leans back toward me, content with my decision. The knocking halts and we begin to drift to sleep again. Then we hear Haymitch's voice.

"I swear to God, sweetheart, if you don't open this door in the next ten seconds, I'll kick it down!"

Peeta immediately begins laughing, but I know Haymitch well enough to know that he is serious. It takes me a minute to disengage from Peeta, all the while shouting for Haymitch to wait. I do not want to have to fix the front door.

"I'll get him," Peeta tells me, but I shove him back into bed.

"Let me," I am already up anyway. I seize his green shirt from the night before, shove my arms in and manage to do up the top buttons before I stick my head out of the bedroom window. The cool air hits me full in the face as I lean out. A disgruntled Haymitch and a nervous Greasy Sae are standing on our front stoop. The sight of me melts the anger right off of his face.

"It's about time, you two!" he shouts this up at the both of us. I cannot help but smile. Peeta crawls out of bed, clutching a sheet around him and joins me at the window. Together we wave down at our visitors. They clear off in a hurry.

"I guess we should get up," I close the window and turn towards Peeta.

"Not a chance," he draws the curtains and seizes me around the waist. "I'm not done with you yet."

In the privacy of our home, I allow myself to be taken back to bed by the man I love. As he kisses me, I perform my morning ritual.

My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in the new District 12 with Peeta Mellark. We are in love.

For the first morning in many months, I feel my face break into a smile.

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A/N: If you have a moment, please leave a review. I love constructive criticism. Thank you for reading!


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